


Ceann aen Cáerme

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Cahir deserves more love, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mild Smut, So does the whole hansa, so deal with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 01:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18297686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Despite the dangers posed by the Wild Hunt, Ciri ventures away from her hiding place to visit a particular time and place to confront a ghost from her past.This is a short, angsty one-shot borne of my love of the books and the fact that I will forever be hungry for more hansa-related content.Disclaimers: This work is fanfiction based off of The Witcher series by Andrzej Sapkowski. I do not own these characters - I just love them immensely!  Please note that this work contains prominentSPOILERSfrom The Witcher book series.





	Ceann aen Cáerme

Tendrils of a cool, light fog crept about her ankles and calves, reaching upward to tickle and raise the fine hairs upon her bare forearms.  Her head ached slightly, and she could not remember precisely how she got here, but that mattered little. The meditation Avallac’h taught her had worked.  She had successfully targeted a specific point in time and space, a point in time and space not far from her own, but one that she had missed, one that had taken place without her knowledge.  It had not been an easy task, and even Avallac’h had been skeptical of its possibility.  
  
During their time together, Avallac’h had shown her many things.  During their flight from the Wild Hunt, he had shown her countless futures and pasts, all that was and all that could yet be.  He had shown her tiny moments and grand ones. But he had not led her here. Ciri had found this moment, this particular place on her own.  She stood in the solitude of a deep forest, engulfed in the darkness of night, just a few days’ ride from Stygga castle.  
  
The woods were silent, but their camp was filled with soft, quiet noises of comfort: slow, sleeping breaths, the rustle of bodies shifting gently in their furs, the crackle of the low, dying fire.  A few empty bottles lie strewn about the area, evidence that, for once, they slept deeply and comfortably. It was peaceful.  
  
She waited, content to enjoy the peace, though she knew her time was short.  Avallac’h would be unhappy with her for leaving. He might even be searching for her, risky though it was.  Nevertheless, Ciri took her time and waited, crouched just outside of the ring of light cast forth by the smoldering flames at the center of the camp.  She could see them all, though just the tops of their heads, just visible outside of their furs. She could see them all. She knew their names, though she had not known them at the time.  She knew them now, because she had pressed Avallac’h until he had told her, shown her. She knew all of their names but one. _Milva, Angoulême, Regis, and the Nilfgaardian._ Her emerald eyes glinted with tears as she looked at them, sleeping peacefully.  One of them, in particular, caught her eye. _White hair_ .  She longed to go to him, to speak to him, to warn him.  But she could not.  
  
Ciri felt a deep and inescapable pain, fearsome anguish, a harrowing guilt.  Not long from now, in another place, they would die for her. They would all die.  She had watched it all. She remembered every detail.  
  
Her tears ran more quickly, streaking down her face.  Sworn not to break the silence, she cut down the grief, compressed it, forcing it away, but the more she rejected it, the stronger it became.  It had been a mistake to come, she knew, for what had she achieved? She had endangered Avallac’h and herself, only to find misery. Rising swiftly from where she crouched, Ciri turned for the trees when she heard it, the soft rustling of furs, followed by the uneven shuffling of sleepy footsteps.    
  
The Nilfgaardian blinked slowly, drowsily rubbing his eyes with the back of a heavy hand.  He wore no armor, lacked the sooty, winged helmet that had haunted her dreams for years as a child.  In fact, he stood quite vulnerable, wearing only breeches, patched and worn from their travels, and a thin, low-cut tunic.  His dark hair was mussed from sleep, his blue eyes bleary. Cahir paused at the edge of the firelight, peering hard into the darkness.  His hand instinctively swept at his side, searching for his blade and finding nothing. He cursed softly and half-turned to fetch his weapon, but something kept him in place.  His eyes narrowed, the fatigue vanishing behind a wave of adrenaline, and he peered hard into the darkness. Ciri knew he would soon wake the others. His suspicions alerted, he would call to them, rousing them for action, and she would be caught.  His lips parted to speak, and she stepped forward simultaneously, just a step, just enough to be seen.  
  
He froze, his body still.  His hand, still poised at his side for his weapon, trembled slightly.  He looked as though he were witnessing a ghost, his vivid blue eyes so very wide and awash with moonlight.   _Only it is I who sees the ghost,_ she thought, her lips twisting with pain.    
  
They stood unmoving for a long moment.  His eyes flicked from her emerald ones to her ashen hair to the scar across her face.  
  
“ _Ciri_ ,” he whispered at last, incredulous.    
  
Her eyes darted to the others, still asleep.  The figure with the white hair shifted, but soon fell still once more.   _He’s drank a good amount, thank the gods._ Ciri knew it took no small amount of alcohol to subdue the Witcher.  Turning her gaze back to Cahir, she shushed him softly, raising a finger to her lips.    
  
“Come,” she mouthed, gesturing, “follow me.”  
  
To her relief, he did as she commanded, taking care as he stepped away from the light.  He followed her into the forest, well away from the camp, to a small clearing encircled by tall pines.  When she reached the center, Ciri turned to face him, the man she had feared for so long, the man whose face she dreamt of often, now.  Though, in her dreams, his features were contorted with surprise and pain. In her dreams she saw him as she had seen him, then, when Bonhart’s blade had pierced his armor and brought him to his knees.  She fought hard to blink away the memory, to see him now as he was before her. It seemed he was struggling to do the same.  
  
“Am I drunk or dreaming?”  Though he hid it well, the intoxication revealed his slight, lilting accent.    
  
Ciri smiled.  
  
“Yes,” she laughed softly, sadly, “both.”  
  
He frowned with disappointment and uttered a quiet curse in his native tongue.    
  
“I thought...I had hoped…”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You seem so real,” he looked at her with uncertainty.  Suddenly, his shoulders sagged with defeat. “And yet, this must be a dream, for you do not fear me.”  
  
Ciri nodded slowly, blinking back the thin sheen of tears forming behind her eyes.    
  
“In that case, I wish to tell you...I wish to tell you that I am sorry.  That I will find you, I swear it. I will find you and I will prove to you.  I’ll prove that I am not a monster. I wish to tell you that, and to ask that you forgive me.  Ciri, please,” he fell to his knee before her in earnest. “Please, forgive me. Forgive me.”  
  
She stared at him for a long moment, her green eyes hard and unyielding, her arms folded across her chest.  Then, slowly, her arms fell away, and her gaze softened. Ciri stepped forward, slowly. Dappled in the moonlight, his face was turned up towards hers.  His features were kind and handsome. He was older than she was, but not by much, it seemed, for his face was still proud, his eyes still gleamed with the remnants of a self-assured boyishness, a certainty worn thin by time and grief and pain.  And war. She reached out, her thin fingers trembling slightly, and traced the curve of a scar across his cheek. Cahir closed his eyes and exhaled a soft, shuddering breath, savoring the feeling of her touch.  
  
“Ciri, forgive me.  Please.”  
  
His eyes opened suddenly, brilliant and blue and pleading.  The sincerity, the harrowing need, in his face took her by surprise.  
  
“I do,” she confessed, her voice a hoarse whisper, “I have.”  
  
She sank to her knees beside him, allowing herself to fall into his arms, which embraced her without pause or question.  The tears fell freely, made cold against her face by the night air. She pressed herself against him and trembled, silently pleading for a forgiveness of her own.   _Turn back, go home, run away if you must.  Just don’t follow him, don’t follow the White Wolf.  Turn away, and take him with you, take them all. Please._  He held her close.  He brushed the tears from her face and stroked her hair, asking no questions, seeking nothing from her at all.    
  
Ciri pushed him back suddenly, seizing him roughly by the shoulders.  He blinked in surprise, his arms still raised to hold her.  
  
“Tell me your name,” she demanded, commanding her voice to be steady.    
  
“My…?”  
  
“Your name,” she repeated firmly.  “All my life, I’ve known you only as ‘the Nilfgaardian’, a shadow, a nightmare contorting my dreams.  Tell me.”  
  
“Cahir,” he murmured, lowering his head and averting his gaze with shame.  “My name is Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. Of Vicovaro, not Nilfgaard.”  
  
“Cahir,” she repeated softly, and the name felt familiar on her tongue, “of Vicovaro.”    
  
He raised his head to look at her, and Ciri kissed him swiftly, her fingers sliding along the sharp line of his jaw.  He gasped softly in surprise but did not pull away. She kissed him harder, leaning against him. She seized his hands with hers, guiding him to her waist, her hips.  Slowly, his taut muscles relaxed, his posture eased. His lips softened against hers. His hands pressed into her where she had directed them, his palms pleasant and warm through her tunic.    
  
She guided him back against the ground and helped him to undress, her fingers working nimbly at first his attire, then her own.  He was inexperienced, and at first he moved slowly and with hesitation. He seemed grateful when Ciri took the lead, and she did so with attentive patience.  His confidence grew with every kiss, every touch, every sigh. Held held her close and whispered her name. They made love slowly and gently under the starry night sky, their bodies quivering in unison with anticipation, and from the cold.  When at last they fell still, their breaths uneven, their muscles trembling, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed his face to her hair. His fingers traced the familiar outline of her tattoo, gently tickling the inside of her thigh.  
  
“Ciri,” he spoke her name, and she looked into his eyes.  They held a question, one that she could not answer, for she could not tell the truth but neither could she lie to him.  He did not ask her again. Instead, he gently brushed her hair back from her face, his thumb carressing the edge of her scar.  
  
“It’s time,” she whispered, her wavering voice betraying her.  “I have to--”  
  
He pressed his lips to hers, softly, sweetly, one last time.  When he released her, he smiled, a dashing, confident look meant to encourage her.  She swallowed hard, biting back the emotions that threatened to well up within her. She dressed quickly, an excuse to look away.  He followed her lead and dressed as well. When they were finished, he turned to face her, and she forced herself to meet his gaze.  
  
“What now?”  
  
“Now,” she whispered, “you return to your bed.  You resume your sleep, dream other dreams. And in the morning…”  
  
“In the morning, you’ll be gone.”  
  
She nodded, a coldness running along the length of her spine.  He stepped towards her slowly, extending an arm. He kept his head lowered, uncertain, as though afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly, acted too boldly.  Ciri moved into his arms, allowed him to embrace her, and pressed her face into his chest. His clothes smelt of the forest, of pine and campfire embers, they smelt of him.  She inhaled, committing to hold this moment in her memory. Then, she pushed herself from his grip, turning suddenly away and hurrying towards the edge of the clearing.  
  
“It’s time, I have to go.”  
  
“I’ll remember you, always.”  
  
Ciri paused, turning to look at him.  She wished she hadn’t. Cahir stood before her, the moonlight falling gently over him, open and afraid and unwilling to let what they had shared so briefly fade already into memory.  In that moment, she saw in him a future that could never be, a beautiful future, one that she could want. But there was not a time or a place for that future. Only one path lay ahead for him, only one for her.    
  
She wished to say something, anything.  She wished to thank him and console him, she wished to tell him that she would stay, wished to tell him to run and never look back.  She wished to tell him to go home to Vicovaro, to marry and have children, or to spend his days tending to fields, raising livestock.  Instead, all Ciri could do was nod, turn, and disappear into the forest. She waited, for minutes or for hours, she could not say. She waited until the earliest rays of sunlight began to brighten the dark horizon.  Then, she crept towards their camp, stepping quietly. She made sure he had returned safely to his furs. He had. He was sleeping peacefully. On the ground beside his bed sat a black, winged helmet. She wished to go to him, to touch his face once more, to thank him for his kindness, to admire him his bravery, but she did not move from where she stood.  
  
She slowly looked over them all one last time, her eyes lingering on the pile of furs beneath which her destiny slept, his breaths deeper and more even than the rest, his heartbeat much slower. _You’ll see me soon, White Wolf, but when will I see you?_ She smiled sadly.  Then she turned and walked away, deep into the forest, far enough to depart without being seen or heard.  The air fizzled and cracked. The trees lit up with an eerie blue-green light. And Ciri vanished.  
  
When she returned to their strange world, the world at the edge of the Spiral, it was as she expected.  Avallac’h was displeased with her, she knew, though his ever-stoic face did little to betray his feelings.  He did not raise his voice and, to her surprise, he did not lecture her on the dangers of leaving their haven, nor did he ask her about the details of her journey.  If he knew where and when she had been, he did not speak of it. When she set about her duties of sharpening and cleaning her weapons and tending to Kelpie, he simply watched her for several moments, his wistful gaze as unreadable as ever, then proceeded to attend to his own affairs in silence.    
  
As Ciri continued her work, she revisited her memories of the night before, pictured each of them, asleep in their furs.  She pictured them, and she repeated their names. _Milva, Angoulême, Regis, and the Nilfgaardian._  
  
_No_ , she thought _, no, not the Nilfgaardian.  Cahir. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, of Vicovaro._

**Author's Note:**

> Ceann aen Cáerme - "Until Destiny's End"


End file.
